“I wouldn’t put much past her, though so far she’s taken victims who wouldn’t be missed.”
As soon as she said it, memories clicked like puzzle cubes: the protests in Archlight and riots in Elysia; the angry families in the Justiciary demanding answers; all the pale bodies on slabs in the Sepulcher.
“Saints and shadows.” She shook her head, impressed by the plan even as her stomach clenched. “They’re not random.”
Savedra’s eyebrows rose and she went on. “They’re killing refugee girls. And why not-there are enough of them in the slums, easy to snatch. But for every girl that disappears, the Rosian community gets angrier. There’s been rioting in Elysia already. It will get worse now that the army is home and the city is even more strained.”
“They’re antagonizing the Rosians on purpose?”
“They must be. They want the throne-turning the city against Mathiros can only help them. An unloved king is easier to overthrow, for reasons both practical and thaumaturgical. Then they seize the throne and the killings stop.”
Savedra rocked back. “But a coup would throw the city into more chaos. They would have to kill Nikos, too, and then the Octagon Court would snarl like dogs over the throne.” Her face paled as she spoke. “And why now? The demon days are hardly an auspicious time to do anything.”
“They are if you’re a demon. Phaedra’s power will only increase over the next few days, and the city is at its most vulnerable.”
“Shadows. Nikos is in danger.”
“Go to him. Warn him and keep him close.”
“What are you doing?”
“Going to the Garden. I need to convince Little Kiva not to riot again, and I think I know someone they might listen to.”
Carriages were scarce on the dead days, so Isyllt walked to the Garden. There were more people on the streets of Elysia than there should have been, and too many of them scowled and clustered in angry conversation.
The Briar Patch was closed, as was every shop and tavern on Thistle Street, but smoke trickled out of the chimney. Isyllt hammered on the kitchen door; her hand ached before the latch lifted and Mekaran’s frowning face appeared in the gap.
“What in the black hells do you want, necromancer?”
“I need your help.”
His frown didn’t fade, but the door opened. “Your timing is bad. But maybe you can help me in turn.” He ushered her inside, into warmth and the comforting smell of garlic and ginger. “Dahlia is sick.”
Isyllt’s stomach tightened. “The influenza?”
“What else?” His mouth quirked. “I want to blame you for sending her on errands in the cold, but I know that’s ridiculous. There’s someone sick in every house, lately.” He wore no paint today, and coppery stubble shadowed his jaw. His clothes were plain and dark, and even his hair had begun to fade, cinnamon-brown roots showing beneath the dye.
“Is it bad?”
He shot her a scalding look. “Bad enough. Can you do anything for her?”
“I’m no healer. But let me see her, please.”
Dahlia’s room was a small one above the kitchen, hardly wider than a closet. Warm enough, at least, between heat from below and the brazier glowing by the foot of the bed. The cot was layered in blankets, and Dahlia had burrowed into them. Her hair spread in lank tangles across the pillow and her cheeks were blotched with fever and an alarming yellow flush.
“Lady Iskaldur.” She coughed as soon as she spoke, deep and wet. The whites of her eyes were washed yellow; Isyllt winced at the sight. Bruised lids sank shut a moment later, and the rasp of the girl’s breath deepened.
She remembered the last time she’d sat a sickbed like this-her friend Ziya caught the influenza when they were fifteen and living in a freezing tenement attic in Birthgrave. No money for a physician and only the scant herbcraft Isyllt had gleaned from her mother to fight the illness. If Ziya had died that night, Isyllt would have lost everything.
Instead Kiril had found her, and offered help in exchange for her apprenticeship.
She didn’t realize she was crying till a tear slipped off her chin and splashed the blanket. “How long has it been?” she asked, scrubbing her cheeks.
“Two days,” Mekaran said from the doorway. “The fever hit yesterday and the jaundice came this morning. What is this plague? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Neither have I. The Arcanost swears it’s just influenza, but they’re lying to prevent a panic.” She sank onto the edge of the bed and took Dahlia’s clammy hand in hers. The symptoms were an unnatural mix of influenza and the bronze fever. A fever the city hadn’t seen since the summer of Lychandra’s death….
Isyllt remembered her fevered dreams-blood and more blood, and black wings. She closed her eyes and extended her magic, sending tendrils of power questing through Dahlia. Death answered, a shadow in the girl’s lungs, a sickly yellow glow pulsing through her veins and coiling in her liver. Not the sharp echo of a mortal illness, not yet, but the potential was there.
She forced her awareness deeper, clenching her jaw as Dahlia began to shiver at the invasive chill. Dimly she heard Mekaran’s indrawn breath, but he had the sense not to interrupt. There. Scarlet ribbons twined the muddy yellow of the plague, shining with a faint porphyry glitter. The taste of cinnamon spread across her tongue.
Phaedra had taken the dead plague as well as the dead queen’s flesh, quickened it and melded it with the influenza till she had a new plague that would spread in winter. Isyllt’s breath hitched at the ingenuity of it, the skill involved. Silently, she cursed Kiril and Mathiros and all the fates for making this woman her enemy.
Then she gathered herself and launched her magic against Phaedra’s. Dahlia shuddered and writhed and Mekaran swore. Death-magic flashed like a scalpel, slicing the ribbons of haematurgy. Crimson unraveled into yellow, and the yellow in turn began to fade. Magic spread the dead fever-if she could break Phaedra’s spell, only the natural illness should remain.
She opened her eyes as Mekaran’s hand closed on her shoulder; she felt the violence harnessed in his manicured grip. Dahlia had curled into a shivering ball, her breath coming in soft keening gasps. Her lips were bruised blue, as were the tips of the fingers Isyllt still held. Sweat cooled on Isyllt’s brow.
“The plague is sorcery. Another attempt to weaken the city.” She let go of Dahlia’s hand and pulled the covers tightly around the girl’s neck. “I broke its hold on her.”
Mekaran released her; her shoulder throbbed where his fingers had ground flesh to bone. “You nearly killed her.”
She nodded, unclenching her aching jaw. “I’m no healer,” she repeated. “But it worked. She’s still sick, but the taint is gone. The jaundice should clear soon-if it’s anything like the real bronze fever, her urine will be bloody when it passes. Keep her warm and full of soup and tisane-she’s strong enough to fight the rest.” Or so she prayed.
Mekaran’s frown remained, but his shoulders slumped. He added fuel to the brazier before leading Isyllt back to the kitchen.
“What do you need my help for?” he asked as he poured tea. He set a cup in front of Isyllt, followed by a plate of yesterday’s bread and honey.
Between sips of tea, she explained about the murdered women, the riots and the growing unrest. “The last thing the city needs during the demon days is rioting. Violence and destruction will draw spirits like a beacon, and only further these demons’ plans.”
“And this demon witch who made the plague is the one who killed Forsythia.”
It wasn’t a question, but Isyllt nodded anyway. “Between you and Ciaran I thought you might talk some sense into the instigators. Once we deal with this sorceress they can march on the Justiciary all they please, but not in the next five days.”
Mekaran stared at the mug cradled in his broad hands. “I know some of the leaders. I’ll talk to them. They’re angry, though, and the marigolds who refuse to help them are a likelier target than demons no one has seen. Pray
